The Way We Fall
by Celia Stanton
Summary: Progress. Regress. Repeat as necessary.
1. The Dance We Do

_Disclaimer: The recognizable characters and situations herein do not belong to me. This story is meant solely for entertainment purposes. No infringement is intended._

_Notes: This story is rated PG-13/Teen for language and main character injury (though the latter mostly happens off-screen.) I should probably also put an angst warning on it, because, well, it's me._

_This is my first big foray into "Castle" fic, so any and all comments are welcome. A huge thanks to Alamo Girl, without whom this would have been a big old pile of crap._

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****1. The Dance We Do**

He is surrounded by the desolate weariness that follows war and chaos, when streetlights twinkle from afar and understand why he is not walking among them on his way home. Instead, he's striding into the bullpen, carrying four pizzas for the detectives who have worked overtime this week, running up a hill of desperation and pain and into a maze of mayhem, families and forensics.

The exhaustion in the squad room is palpable; even the mesh barricade that separates the hallway from the detectives' desks is sinking forward with muted groans, bowing beneath the weight of having seen too much of a cruel, unordinary world.

Beckett is nowhere to be seen, but Ryan and Esposito are at their desks, shoulders slumped forward as they bear the burden of experiencing the worst of humanity day in and day out. Their faces are ashen in exhaustion, and Castle is briefly thankful he doesn't have to carry that heavy an encumbrance with him.

He approaches their desks, and can see they're looking over crime scene photos. Never deterred, he places the pizza boxes on the edge of Esposito's desk and says, "I've always been partial to _Playboy_ myself. The articles are _very_ informative."

Esposito snaps his folder shut at the sight and smell of the food, and Castle watches as his countenance shifts to relief, a proud smile coming to his own face. As the detective opens the box and as the smells of pepperoni and a brief, naively blinding reprieve fill the air, he says, "Dude, you are a godsend."

"You should see my statue in Athens. Although I've always felt they made my nose a little off." He looked toward a familiar desk-and-chair setup, empty and quiet in the heavy night. "Where's Beckett?"

Mouth full of food, Ryan replies, "Interrogation two. Reviewing security footage."

Castle grabs a slice of cheese and a handful of napkins and walks to the door, rapping lightly before pushing it open.

She's perched on the edge of the table, remote in one hand, chin in the other. The bags under her eyes are noticeable, the blood on her jeans from chasing the wrong suspect painful for him to even look at. He feels her ache acutely, and wants nothing more than to take it away. He sees the darkness around her; feels what it's like to be swallowed up inside it, because what happens to her happens to _him_. He knows everything she's going through, not because he cold reads her--like he did the first time they met--but because she's _telling_ him.

Not in so many words, of course. This _is_ Kate Beckett we're talking about.

Once he had regained her trust after looking into her mother's murderer--once he had been welcomed back into the fold; once he'd realized the gravity of his mistakes and apologized--she had slowly started giving him pieces of herself. They are mismatched and few in number; slivers of information he doesn't quite know what to do with. Sometimes they are painful and make him bleed; frustrate him when he can't make sense out of them. And sometimes he holds them in highest regard, as delicately as he would the greatest treasures. More often than not, they are the latter, and he thanks God or Fate or whatever that he's not too much of a jackass not to realize it this time.

He slides onto the rickety table beside her, setting the pizza on her thighs, toward her knees. "You been Rick Roll'd yet?" he asked, motioning to the TV.

She smiles, albeit a tight, tired one. "Not yet. Although," the word is separated by a long yawn, "I think we're all so delirious from lack of sleep that we'd start dancing or something."

Castle shakes his head. "Can't dance to Rick Astley. You'd ruin your street cred."

She arches an eyebrow. "What would _you_ know about street cred, Castle?"

"Hey, I've got mad skills. Justin Beiber's got nothing on me."

She rolls her eyes, and he continues. "Yeah, if you're going to revive _Cop Rock_, it's gotta be something more…formal." He thinks on it a moment, and then snaps his fingers. "You could recreate _Evolution of Dance._ I'd pay money to see that one."

The smile returns, fuller now, and he feels complete in his assignment. He motions to the pizza with his chin. "Eat."

Obediently, she takes a tiny bite of the slice he bought her before going back to the grainy black-and-white video. He leans forward to take a closer look, but Beckett remains in her spot.

He turns around only when she speaks.

"Castle, what are you doing here?"

"Getting lessons on how to watch crappy videos on twenty-year-old VCRs. All the classes hosted by the Geek Squad were full."

She nudges the back of his calf with her boot. "Castle."

He looks over his shoulder up at her, face and voice serious. "I just want to help. But if I'm in the way--" an unwanted flashback to a little girl, a pink stuffed bunny and unresolved sexual tension between two cops races through his mind, "I'll go."

Her mouth becomes a tight line as she thinks, and his stomach sinks. Finally, she picks up the piece of pizza and takes a bit bigger bite. "Well, as long as you're in _here_, it means you're not out _there_, causing problems I have to clean up in the morning."

He sits up and gently takes her wrist, his thumb running gently over her pulse points. "Well, Detective, the night is still young. I can cause a lot of problems." He leans an inch closer. "But you can clean me up anytime you like."

She nudges him forcefully in the shoulder, and it's his turn to smile, even as he increases the space between them. "I'm so out of your league, you wouldn't know where to begin."

Oh, but how he'd like lessons. She is a question he hasn't learned how to ask yet, but is desperate to learn how.

He often wonders about this path they're trying to navigate. It's far from a yellow brick road. It's hazardous, uneven cobblestone intent on causing missteps, trying desperately to wrench them apart.

He knows he will always extend a hand to try and keep them together. He also knows she will always be reluctant to take it. It's just who she is; independent. Stubborn. Scared?

And then they will stand at a crossroads and stare at each other, wondering what to do next.

He already knows what he'll _want _to do next. He's been attracted to her since day one; he made that crystal clear during the first case. But now that he knows _her_, now that he's seen her in action, now that he has the little slivers of her heart and soul that she's blessed him with, he's looking over a cliff and wondering just when he's going to get to jump.

He just has to hope she'll want to jump with him.

In the interim, he'll hold her as closely as she'll let him, because he truly does feel honored to have received what she's given.

By the time he's finished in his headspace, she's finished her pizza and picked up the remote again. He can't help himself from getting one last jab in.

"You know, most people would constitute dinner and a movie a date."

"Most people would be appalled to know that Rick Castle brought his so-called date pizza and watched grainy security video instead of taking her to Le Cirque and _In The Heights_." She slides down off the table and deliberately, he's sure, across his knees as she crosses to the garbage can. "I wonder if I still have that friend at the _Ledger._ Maybe she can get in touch with Page Six…"

He claps a hand over her mouth when she turns back. "Quite all right, Detective. I get it."

She nods and replies, voice muffled, "Good."

He drops his hand and looks at her seriously. "You need any help with this?"

She shakes her head. "One of us should have the luxury of going home."

"Well, Alexis is away and Martha's on some kind of Sondheim kick. Might be safer for me here."

She chuckles but shakes her head. "Go on home, Castle. I'll call you if I need you."

He nods, comforted in the truth that's now the basis of this partnership, and then on impulse, rubs her back in encouragement and something else he cannot--will not--name. "It's there. You'll figure it out."

The smile turns small but serious, and the air seems to hold blue, cold shades of doubt; questions she wants to ask but cannot vocalize. Cases like this always beat her into submission; drag her to the bottom of a rabbit hole that scrapes along the very vestiges of hell.

He feels uniformly useless during these kinds of cases, and does the only thing he knows how to do: be there when she needs him. He just hopes he's doing a decent enough job.

He holds her gaze for a minute more, and then breaks the tension. "By the way, you owe me $38.50 for the pizza."

She laughs, a deflated but relieved sound nonetheless. "Fill out a reimbursement form. You should see a check before you start collecting Social Security, if you're lucky."

He retracts his hand and steps toward the door, hearing the scrape of the table legs on mismatched linoleum as she resumes her perch. The click of the VCR returns just as his hand brushes the knob.

As he crosses the threshold, preparing to return to a world she protects but never gets any credit for, she calls out to him. When he turns, her eyes shine. From what, he's not sure; exhaustion, gratitude, the lights in the room. Somehow, it warms him, and he tries to memorize the expression for recall the next time she's pissed at him. Finally, he replies, "Yes?"

She nods and says, very seriously and in a tone he's sure she's used on only a few people in her life, "Thank you."


	2. The Balance We Seek

**2. The Balance We Seek**

She's not quite sure how this happened; how she came to be standing in front of his door, staring at a grain pattern she's come to know almost as well as her own.

She can hear Castle deadpanning even before she has time to draw another breath. _Well, I would hope you took a cab. It's an awfully long walk, especially this time of night._

So Pinocchio got Jiminy Cricket, and she was stuck with _Castle_ as her conscience? Fate was a bitch.

She looks down to her index finger, upon which her key ring swings rhythmically backwards and forwards, at the ready for when she was to put them to use.

Perhaps _that's_ how she got here; riding a pendulum, partially without permission and mostly on instinct, taking her from point A to point B and back again, waiting for her to decide when she was ready to jump off into the unknown.

At the moment, she isn't.

And yet, she isn't ready to leave, either.

The taunts of indecision slice through the quiet of the hallway, and she takes a step away from the door, leaning against the adjacent wall.

She's lost count of how many times she's stood across from this door. She's come in gratitude for a stunning red dress but meaning--stumbling--to say thank you for going to outrageous lengths to help with cases that concern strangers--people who had heard of him in life but will never know what he did to find justice for their deaths.

She's come to try and develop a theory about a frozen corpse, details that keep her up at night. Talk shop when all she wants to do is ask, "If I'm lost, will someone want to find me? Will _you_ want to find me?"

She's come to this door seeking solace, during times when she is deafened by the sounds of madness; when she can no longer hear her heartbeat and fears she is dead--when she needs to be reminded that she's not just a ghost in the mirror. When she needs someone to care that she will not disappear, be dismantled, be broken into a thousand pieces that draw blood from whomever touches them. And even if she does, that someone will be there to clean up the mess.

She's come to this door because, while she loves her parents, these people are her family, too, and have given her so much she'd never thought have again. A mother's hug; Friday pizza-and-movie nights; a reminder of how precious innocence can be, when boys who find _Halo_ more interesting than their girlfriends is the biggest international crisis since the Cold War. A place where she is (_finally_, once she'd threatened Alexis with a CHINS warrant) "Kate," not the fallible sham of a human being trying to hold the world together with two bits of string, stale bubblegum and a rusted sense of duty hidden behind a shield that she only half understands sometimes.

The keys on the end of her finger stop of their own volition, and her nimble fingers seek out the silver item among a ray of gold. She'd found the key under her coffee mug one day, but hadn't even been able to utter a word before Castle brazenly (_uninvited_, she thinks in half-hearted amazement, idly wondering if he'd forgotten--or even _cared_--that she had a gun) curled a finger around her wrist and simply said, "If ever you need it."

She hadn't until now.

Six little girls, aged five through nine, raped and murdered. Serial killer. She feels as though the city will never be clean again, despite the pouring rain she just walked thirty-six blocks through, hoping desperately that the drops would wash some kind of absolution onto her skin, and let it soak through to her soul.

It didn't. Instead, it beat blame onto her shoulders, trying to force her to her knees so she could accept punishment for _her_ crimes; for not tying the MOs together quickly enough.

And now she is here, weary from having descended to sit at the right hand of Satan. Because she needs to remember that there _are_ some families who are here together. Whole together.

Finally, taking a deep breath, she slips the key into the lock, but on force of habit--and a healthy dose of trepidation for crossing a line she'd stayed so steadfastly away from--knocks as she pushes the door open.


	3. The Changes We Invoke

**3. The Changes We Invoke**

It unnerves him that his only clear memory of saying her given name was when terror was threatening to hoarsen it into sandpaper, rendering it useless.

And then the explosion had taken that from him--taken _her _from him, and his ability to find the right word in any situation didn't matter. The things he had wanted to say--_please don't leave me, I don't know how to do this on my own, there's so much left to do together_--would have to remain at the back of his singed throat, his vocal chords blackened in mourning.

He still doesn't remember getting to the fiery apartment, blinding and rapturous defeat reflecting off his face as flames danced victoriously around the decimated scene. All he remembers is feeling shattered, torn limb from limb, instinctively knowing the best part of him--a part he had not fully appreciated was there--was now gone.

And then, out of the ashes…

He doesn't think she realizes that she was a phoenix that night; that _she_ rescued _him_, for he was Icarus unbound: fallen, broken and bloody.

Though the crime scene is long cleaned and she is back, healthy and whole, the memories of his screams still eat at his singed soul. It keeps him up some nights, making him stare out into the darkness and wonder what nightmares lay within.

Encountering the worst of humanity is starting to take a toll. When he was just writing, he could walk away, for there were no real consequences for putting pen to paper. But now, there are faces whose eyes he sees staring back at him in the mirror. There are voices he hears, crying out for help and an explanation as to why they're no longer here.

It's a burden he didn't consider when he asked the mayor to call the Commissioner. But now he is surrounded by death--and by _choice_.

And it scares the living shit out of him.

Even more frightening is the fact that when he looks at her, there are flashes of memory, sparks of recollection, about the night her apartment was bombed, and his throat goes instantly dry.

He has to change the circumstances; find a soothing balm that will at least fit into the delusion of healing.

Of living.

So, navigating carefully, he starts calling her Kate every now and then.

It's a reminder, a reassurance--to himself, to God, he's not sure--that she's still here, that he wasn't too late. That she hasn't slipped away like she sometimes does in his dreams, because at the end of the day, he _is_ just a writer, not a cop, and far, far less bravely capable than she.

It comforts him. Makes him feel like he can breathe again--fresh, clean air, like that after a summer storm, not the ashy soot he'd been inhaling in guilty gulps since he'd failed to protect her.

He'd expected a reaction of a rolled eye or an arched eyebrow the first time he did it, but as she always does, she surprised him. She seemed to understand the necessity of the gesture, the acknowledgement that they are inexorably linked now--like their fingers when he hands her a cup of coffee from the espresso machine she'll _finally_ take a cup from. Even if it's for a moment, half the blink of an eye, it can be difficult to tell where one begins and the other ends.

It becomes a gentle caress; an intimacy he has not yet been afforded but treats with the utmost respect and devotion. It is a new line of understanding, another dimension to this quickly refracting prism.

It's a bonus when he realizes she always smiles when he does it.


	4. The Revelations We Have

**4. The Revelations We Have**

A low hum of energy buzzes around her; there is a palpable undercurrent of electricity sliding beside her desk.

She notices it because it's out of place. Errant. Suspect.

She leans back in her chair, chewing on her pen cap as she thinks.

She straightens as though she's been painfully electrocuted when she realizes why everything's different.

_He's_ not here.

He's on a field trip of the Civil War battlefields with Alexis--Gettysburg and Antietam--so his uncontrollable, unavoidable liveliness--the one that is far too loudly boisterous to ignore and usually requires four Excedrin Migraine capsules by noon--is noticeably absent. It's changed the whole dynamic of the bullpen.

She's surprised to find she doesn't like it.

This energy hums contently, lazily, like a dozing cat in the early spring sunshine, where it's normally an out-of-control puppy zipping around at breakneck speed, skittering across the linoleum when it can't come to a complete stop.

It's leaving her on edge, because her head is filled with fog. She's slower somehow; with him around, she's always moving at warp speed for fear of being left behind. Following him sometimes reminds her of playing in the woods when she was a child: the thrill of adventure with an almost equal dose of dread, as she still hasn't quite shaken the initial instinct that Castle-in-the-field is not exactly the brightest idea Montgomery's ever had.

She realizes that while she wasn't paying attention, there's been a shift in their partnership. For it is now truly a partnership--neither of them leads and neither follows. Theirs is a shared exhilaration; the understandings implicit from the beginning on cases now extending far beyond professional borders…and starting to strengthen.

She feels torn with him gone, like half of her brain is missing. Like she's not working at full readiness or her best capability. Somehow, what she had once seen as detrimental was now the strongest of foundations, a layer of brick she'd very seriously consider standing on.

He's always talked about inevitability, but this is stretching the bounds of what she knows, what she's done, and what she's hoped.

Because she knows it's everything or nothing with him, all-in or not at all.

His philosophy is "say when," while, after Will, hers was always "never again."

She feels lost now, caught in the viciousness of the unexpected storm. She's swallowed up by the grey uncertainty of questions of being good enough and taking chances.

It's a question worth posing, even If she's got no idea of the answer. Everything had been so black-and-white once, and she longs for the days when she hated him; first at the beginning because he was, in her words, annoying. And then his so-called "betrayal…"

But he's still here. Not because he needs to be, but because he _wants_ to be. They both know he's a creative genius. He could write the remaining contracted Nikki Heat books in his sleep.

She knows he's staying for her.

She wants to be exhilarated by that. She wants to just close her eyes and fall. But that's not how she works. She's been burned--singed until her skin hissed like a snake. So the status quo shall stand.

But she can't help but wonder what it would be like to inch toward the unknown and just give in. He has been as close a friend as she'd ever had; as devoted and encouraging as she could have ever hoped for. He's seen both sides of her, and was still there.

She's been as bare and vulnerable in front of him as she'd ever been with anyone. Maybe _that's_ why it was so hard to let go; Castle has proven he could handle it, but _she_ hasn't.

A detective from Missing Persons walks by and breaches the barrier, allows her to break the surface. Handing her a piece of paper, he says, "Got this off NCIC for you."

She nods her thanks and looks, curiosity written openly on her face, to the reporting agency ID number, which indicates the teletype is from Maryland. She doesn't have any cases with ties to that area, so what the hell…?

Then she sees the message.

Reads it again, breathes deeply for the first time all day, and grins.

He'll be back soon.

Which means she will be too.

_Kate…just thought I'd let you know all the horses in the jurisdiction were accounted for. I'll call you later. --RC_


	5. The Progress We Make

**5. The Progress We Make**

She's not the horse-and-buggy through Central Park type date. She's the Yankee Stadium on a weekend type, with a beer in one hand and a hot dog in the other, talking about whether or not she thinks the Twins will be a contender this year now that they've lost their closer, and admitting she's glad Jason Varitek--the only player to catch four no-hitters, she informs him--is going to retire in a Red Sox uniform, rivalry or not.

He's not quite sure what to call what they're doing, sitting along the third base line shortly after Opening Day. Well, he knows what _she's_ doing; she's watching an AL East match-up and comparing her analysis with that of someone named Buster. _He's _memorizing the graceful slant of her neck as the early April sunshine highlights the planes of her face. Shadows curve away from him, taunting him like a siren's song with places he desperately wants to explore but also with a barrier he is still unable to cross.

If she were anyone else, it would be so easy to push her hair back and let fingers and lips do the walking. If she were anyone else, he'd give in to the unending instinct to take her back to his place and throw her mustard stained shirt into the wash before throwing _her_ on his bed.

But she's not anybody else. She's a completely unique entity, separate from anyone else he's ever been involved with.

And he loves it.

It's a jarring thought, one that slams into his diaphragm with a crack almost as audible as they're hearing on the playing field. He's settled so comfortably with the status quo--his choice in writing, in women; hell, in just about anything--that the idea of changing is at once both terrifying and exhilarating.

He's no idea what to do with it.

More importantly, what would _she_ do with it? Is he reading far too much into this? Yes, he would constitute this as a date, but he has no idea if she's ever caught a game with the boys and this is just a fun way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

She's idly scratching at her left knee while drinking her beer, having gone quiet while he was lost inside his head. He finds he's going into _her_ headspace, looking at the situation as she would.

_The evidence shows the officer in question enters the residence of subject at least three times per week. Investigators collected a key in officer's possession that opens the door to subject's dwelling. Also located: officer's cellular telephone where subject's number was the first pre-programmed setting._

_Officer in question is also listed as an emergency contact for subject's daughter at minor's place of education._

But it's more than physical evidence. It's emotional. He trusts her implicitly, completely. He trusts her with his life. With Alexis' or his mother's.

He admires her strength, her tenacity, her resolve. Her empathy that comes in equal doses.

He loves her laugh; would do anything to hear it. When he's with her, he feels like he's being burned by the hottest rays of the sun. He is threatening to be blinded, but still cannot compel himself to turn away. It's the best kind of pain he could ever feel.

He realizes in that moment, just as she turns to ask him, he's certain, why the hell he's staring at her, that he's no longer waiting to jump.

He's already fallen.

Her brows are quirked; she's waiting for an answer. Instead, he lays his right hand atop hers as it rests on her knee. The spark is immediate, scorching.

But unexpectedly…_miraculously_…she doesn't pull away.

They sit like that, painfully still, and he is devastatingly aware of each breath they take.

And then she relaxes, spreading her fingers wide enough for him to slip his own fingers in between her knuckles. They stay like that for four more innings, during which he actually pays attention to her analysis of the game. (He never knew the words "designated hitter" could be so damn sexy.)

When they stand for the seventh inning stretch, she does something he never expected.

She takes a half step toward him, resting her hip against his. Their hands are still linked; their eyes follow suit.

There's trepidation in her eyes; dark suspicion. But there's something else coloring the edges.

Something he desperately wants to believe is hope.

She'll find an assurance in his eyes. _I'll never hurt you._

Excruciatingly slowly, he rests his hand on the small of her back and turns her slightly toward him. He has a flash of memory as he leans down--the last time he was this close was during their first case, when he stole a peck on the cheek. His other hand cups her face, traces her cheekbone with his thumb, and she slides her fingers up to cup his wrist. Their mouths meet, breathlessly brief, because there is such heat coming from her that they can't add too much oxygen, or they might combust.

It would be a fitting ending; theirs has always been a blistering relationship. Why should this step be any different?

He feels like a match, and she's gasoline, edging him far past the point of fiery insanity. This is not a slow burn; it's a conflagration threatening to consume them both, and he finds he doesn't mind.

He rests his forehead against hers a moment later. Her eyes are shut, and he cradles her to him, still reveling in her warmth and the relief that the stalemate had finally broken.

As the game drags on, he finds he cannot still his hands. It's like there is an irresistible force compelling him to confirm she is real; _this _is real. His index finger traces a lazy line up and down her wrist. When he feels gooseflesh start to dot her soft skin, mostly on instinct he draws her pulse point to his mouth and kisses it.

She smiles then, an expression he hasn't seen before. It's not her indulgent smile, the one he gets because NYPD brass have forced him on her. It's not her reluctant smile, used when one of his comments or theories turns out--in a shocking turn of events fueled by just a touch of ire--to be correct. It's not her sad, longing smile, the one he saw the first time she told him about why she wears her mother's ring and her father's watch.

This smile is free, unreserved, unrepentant in its momentary happiness. It's not thinking about tomorrow or the disaster this could turn into.

If he had thought he'd do anything to make her laugh, he'd double his efforts to see this smile again.

Impulsively, he leans over and kisses her again, his heart beating double time as she traces his cheekbone with her thumb. She smiles against his mouth. "What the hell are we doing?" she asks, tone low and husky.

He's rather proud of himself when he forms a full sentence, given what she does next--stick the tip of her tongue out to brush it across her lips, pulling in the rest of the taste of his kiss. "Don't have a clue. Don't really care."

But then he leans back and looks at her seriously, cupping her cheek. "Let me rephrase that. We're doing something we should have done a long time ago. But that's it. It's not going anywhere past that right now."

She quirks a brow. "Oh, _really_?"

He remains stoic. "Really." He can't screw this up. He _won't_ screw it up.

She stares at him a moment longer, and then acquiesces with a half nod, turning around in her seat, but keeping their fingers linked. There is one more kiss when he drops her off that night, and then he turns and leaves.

His smile as he waits for a taxi doubles when he hears his phone ring, and the tone indicating she's calling. When he clicks on, she says quickly, "I just wanted to say…until tomorrow, Castle."

A "cold" case, so long ago. His words: _I'm a writer. 'Until tomorrow' is more hopeful._

His voice is impossibly soft, a caress for her alone when he replies, "Until tomorrow, Kate."


	6. The Sins We Commit

_A/N: This is the chapter with the main character injury. Though it mostly happens off-screen, it might bear a warning, just in case. Enjoy the angst._

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**6. The Sins We Commit**

Irresistible force: bullet, meet immovable object: Richard Castle.

The blood on his shirt is blame realized, and as they wait in the ER for any word on his condition, she has become monosyllabic in her guilt.

She has only flashes of memory, and they taunt her mercilessly as she wrings her shaking hands around what is tantamount to a tie-dye shirt: congealed blood and pin stripe. She knows she should get it to the CSIs to photograph for the report, but can't seem to let go of it--of him--just yet.

She should have known there would be a secondary group of mercenaries waiting to enter after their raid on the weapons shipment that dropped six bodies in their laps over the last four days.

She should have _known _they would take a shot at the last body they saw.

A body on a raid unprotected by full SWAT gear.

She's been entirely numb since she heard the two swift shots and Ryan's immediate "10-13"--their code for "officer needs assistance"--and him coming over the radio, breathless and panicked. "We've got a man down back here!"

No. Not numb. She is arcticly cold, buried but reluctantly alive, and isn't processing much of anything right now, other than holding tightly to the only part she has of him.

_This isn't how the story is supposed to end._ It's such a childish thought, but what makes her saddest is that the only person she'd want to write it is being thoroughly examined and possibly prepared for surgery, depending on the bullet's damage.

Somebody told her…something…about Castle's injuries. A nurse, maybe…was it Nancy?…

_Nurse Nancy. Classic. Castle would _love_ that one. _

Accusing tears sting the back of her eyes, and her chin drops forward, sagging in defeat. She was supposed to protect him. Not for the mayor, not for the city, not for the NYPD, not for Montgomery. Not for politics. She was supposed to protect him for his family--_their_ family.

She was supposed to protect him because he _was_ family.

She was supposed to protect him because he is…

He is…

_What is he, Kate?_

He's a friend.

_Bullshit_, her conscience retorts. _You know you don't believe that._

She knows she doesn't.

But saying what he _is_ would be falling into an uncontrollable maelstrom, and Kate Beckett doesn't do uncontrollable. At least, she never used to.

But somehow, Castle wiggled his way in between the Kevlar and the wounded ego and shifted her perspective. Reminded her that there was a good side to life--not just what filth lies beneath the streets when the rest of the world is asleep. Reminded her that laughing and laser tag were just as important as Miranda rights and search warrants.

Reminded her that she needs a little color in her once very drab black-and-white world.

She was supposed to protect him because he was her dear friend, someone she cared deeply for. She was supposed to protect him because he'd slayed the demons of her past when she was too tired to fight them off herself; played Prince Valiant even when she was far from Guinevere.

She was supposed to protect him because of Yankee Stadium, because they're teetering on the precipice of becoming something else.

She was supposed to protect him because she was finally ready to jump.

She was supposed to protect him because she loved him. End of story.

She failed. End of story.

She pushes herself violently off the ground, thrusts the shirt into Esposito's hands, goes outside and screams an unearthly howl of rage. At God and Fate, but mostly--_definitely_--at herself.

The instinct that Castle's tag-alonging was too risky had never left her; she'd always had a nagging feeling that they'd been working on borrowed time. At first, she'd been concerned that he would jeopardize her cases and potential convictions. Then, as they became closer, she'd been worried for his safety. The fact that she didn't listen to _herself_ made this situation all the worse.

He wasn't a cop. He didn't know what to expect when they went out there every day.

She did.

She's just as guilty as the merc who shot him. She knew the risks and how they should prepare for them. And still she let him get out there to play Cops and Robbers, putting him at the back of a team instead of sandwiching him in the middle, where he would have been more protected.

She slams herself onto a bench, angry fingers thrusting into her hair as though the violent movement would somehow shake some sense into her brain. She can't even ask God for help in making him pull through; only good, responsible people get that privilege. Not someone who sends her…whatever he is…nearly to his deathbed.

The click of high heels on the brickwork outside the ER is unmistakable, and it gets louder as it approaches her. Finally, a soft hand grasps her chin and tilts it upward.

Martha's expression is one of both pain and sympathy, identical to that of the night they caught her mother's killer. It nearly undoes her; knowing the other woman doesn't blame her is a burden that feels like it may shatter her into a million tiny pieces.

She only hears bits and pieces of what the redhead says, because all she hears is _him_. And then she sees him on the ground in a warehouse in Yonkers. His blood on her hands. Alexis' eyes, red from crying, rimmed with fear and accusation.

She wants to reply when Martha stops speaking, but knows it would come out a desolate, desperate sob, and she can't afford to lose control again. This is Antietam revisited, when her brain was two steps behind the rest of her body while he was gone.

Traitorous tears slipped unstopped down her cheeks as she realizes this too is a battlefield, an unending war, and his could be the first of many injuries sustained. He was relentless; dogged. He'd try to come back, play it off like a badge of honor, and probably show the scar to the entire precinct.

But she made a promise to him months ago: she'll take care of Alexis if he's unable to.

She'll make the hard decisions if he can't.

The only solution she sees is the one she doesn't want to. But if ending their partnership so the girl will grow up with both her parents--a grace never to be realized for Beckett herself--then that's what she'll do.

This isn't about the comfort she feels around him; the lightness he brings to the darkest places. This isn't about pulling pigtails anymore. This is about protecting him the way she couldn't protect her mother. This is about saving him the way she saved her father.

This is about ensuring he will be in the world long enough to be enjoyed by everyone, rather than only being part of her private universe.

There will be no middle ground here. She is back to her black-and-white constructs. They used to work okay for her; no reason to think they won't now.

She snorts aloud at the absurdity of the thought, the size of the lie, breaking the icy stillness that surrounds her, but somehow--thankfully, she thinks--her resolve never cracks an inch.

She will do what has to be done to protect him from her. At all costs. Professionally…and personally.

They haven't really started anything yet, save for a few nights on his couch watching TV, tangled up in each other and the delusion they had all the time in the world. It's still easy enough to go back. If she can shield him from harm by walking away, she'll do it.

Clean break.

If only there were such a thing.

She is the last to visit him that night; he is already asleep when she creeps in the room. Somehow, it's fitting that the blackness she feels right now blends so easily with the shadows that lay in each corner.

She watches him sleep for a moment, wondering if she should even be here. Finally, she decides she should at least apologize, and walks silently to his bedside.

His face is scratched an angry red, and bruises line the right side. Her stomach rolls violently, and for a moment, she turns her head, afraid she's going to be sick.

She catches her reflection in the mirror above the sink, and is further revolted. Turning away as though _she_ were the one in pain; as though _she _were the one who had any right to complain about what happened today.

_Gaze upon your failures, Katherine Beckett. Know them as you profess to know yourself._

Finally, she bends over and kisses his forehead, resting her own against the multitude of bandages. "I'm sorry," she whispers, her tears staining the gauze.

He stirs beneath her. "Go back to sleep," she encourages, a faint hand in his hair. "Rest."

His voice is hoarse, small. "Stay."

It's the least she can do, she supposes.

As quietly as she can, she pulls the chair from the wall, and centers it in the middle of a floor littered with an array of IV poles, a tray table and blame. Bathed in slats of angelic moonlight she is sure will burn the moment they hit her aberrant body, she gently lays her hands on his arms and takes a deep breath, sharpening the knife to prepare them both for extrication.

She's ruined so much today. Nearly taken a son, a father, a friend.

Looking at him in this state, she's more certain of her decision than ever.

During the ambulance ride, she'd been whispering a plethora of pleas to him--_please don't leave me, I don't know how to do this on my own, there's so much left to do together--_but now there are only two things to say.

"I'm sorry I failed you, Castle. And our next case will be our last."

As her tears hit his pale skin, she half expects to hear a hissing singe of failure. Of impending distrust.

Of impending heartbreak.


	7. The Promises We Break

**7. The Promises We Break**

He sits in a patchwork environment of rusted bars and mismatched chairs, bumpy linoleum walked on by a thousand different people with a thousand different stories. His goal when he'd first come here was to let the precinct whisper its many tales to him--let the walls talk, as it were.

And then everything shifted. The focus of his universe altered into finding the truth, into doing something that made a difference. Into gaining and giving respect; into both learning and teaching.

And now he was walking away.

He didn't sleep at all last night, instead staring out into the vastness of the city, wondering what other mysteries he would never get to explore. Wondering if any of the people lingering beneath broken street lamps were talking about three cops from the 12th who had some writer tagging along for the hell of it.

Wondering if he was doing the right thing.

As the sun started to reflect off Manhattan's buildings, spotlighting what could have been the first day of the rest of his life, he still didn't have a clear answer. Hell, even as he stands in Montgomery's office, he's having second thoughts.

And then he remembers Alexis coming to him, eyes red from crying and wide from fear, voice hoarse from terror--the latter sending gooseflesh tumbling in waves across his skin, for she sounded identical to how he had during the Nikki Heat murders so many months before--begging him to cool it with Beckett and the boys for a while. He'd written the Storm series with far less "research material" and those books were just as good. ("And financially successful," his mother had called from the other room.)

It was a well rehearsed speech that he'd long had a well rehearsed answer prepared for: something about finding a middle ground; being useful outside his normal sphere of simple, fictional creativity.

But it was her tone that ate at him, kept him up for nights--kept the lights on in his bedroom, in case the monsters came to collect whatever he must have bargained to have survived the ambush. Its jarring familiarity and pact with darkness and death clawed at him as though it were trying to escape from quicksand and consume them both again, and God knew he doesn't want that for her. She'd been forced to grow up too fast as it was.

God also knows he's seen hell the past few weeks; has been dragged to the river Styx and been forced to drink. He's not sure how many more skeletons want to dance.

He doesn't want to find out.

So he stands in Montgomery's office and says he's ready for his tin shield--cop speak for announcing his retirement. The flash of surprise is noticeable on the Captain's face, but he doesn't ask any questions. Instead, he offers a hearty handshake and heartfelt wishes for continued success before turning back to the stack of files on his desk, a pile that only seems to grow as the days go by.

Castle lingers in the doorway for a moment, watching the bullpen that's become his second home. He will be leaving a part of himself here, he realizes, and hopes it's a good one; that for all the discord and arrogance he showed at the beginning, they truly understand how much he respects them and what they do.

Of its own volition, his gaze shifts over to Kate, leaning back in her chair, a file propped up against the edge of her desk. Of course, her pen is in her mouth, and her foot is tapping rhythmically against the side of her desk. He's gone over how to tell her a thousand times, and come up with a thousand and one different ways.

But he can't seem to find the right words. Not that it should matter; while their professional partnership will end--something they've flirted with a few times before--there will still be a personal relationship.

Won't there?

He wonders, given how she's recently burned the days--instead of him--by working overtime.

He knows she blames herself for what happened to him; she may refuse to admit it, but he can still cold read her if he needs to, and he knows when he's right. And where she had started to relax around him--shoulders back and down, private smiles, brushing fingers--she is stiff now; defensive. When they talk, there is a strain apparent--and what used to be, what still is, what may or may not come to pass, turn their words hoarse. Sometimes it's like talking around slivers of sandpaper and broken glass.

He finds himself thinking back to the first day they met, when he was so sure of the inevitable; of the immovable object and irresistible force. He'd vowed to wait for her at the crossroads, be patient until she was ready to join him. But he can linger no longer. He must follow a different path, a different girl, a different request.

And now she'll have reason to add him to the list of people who have abandoned her, who have been there one day and gone the next, with self-preservation and anxiety disguised beneath self-serving excuses.

Maybe she _is_ better off without him.

He sighs resolutely and steps to her desk, sitting in "his" chair for a final time. She closes the folder she'd been reading and sets it atop an empty coffee mug, then steeples her hands and studies him.

The stalemate hovers, waiting to be broken, until, with a knowing nod, she finally speaks, even before he can try to form an explanation that makes some semblance of sense. "You're leaving."

He juts his chin down once in confirmation. "Alexis…"

She nods again, looking to her right, to the world outside where normalcy is given in spades and unappreciated just as easily. "I understand, Castle."

Her voice is soft but even, nary a crack. As opposed to him, who feels like the fissures beneath his feet are going to swallow him whole at any second. He knows he's doing the right thing, but it's still killing him inside.

The regression is so sharp that he feels like he's sliding down the slipperiest of slopes, jagged rocks piercing his back and aimed for his heart.

The rage surprises him; stings the back of his eyes with how hot it is. He wants to shake her, wants to find out why she's not asking him to stay. Why she's not saying she'll talk to Alexis; explain to her that what happened at the raid was a fluke--that it'll never happen again.

And then, in the same ragged, angry breath, he realizes why Kate won't do that: because if he didn't end it, she was going to.

They are so much more alike than he first realized, the same issues and themes written on their psyches for the world to see, should anyone dare to look. He wonders what else he's missed, even when he thought he was paying such close attention.

Suddenly, he is exhausted. The invigorating light of being with her is gone in an instant, and he is plunged into a heavy, weighty darkness that will drag behind him like chains on Marley's ghost. He thinks back to the Nikki Heat murders and the guilt he felt then, and he knows her pain acutely. He doesn't want that for her. If leaving will remove that burden, he'll go as far as she needs him to.

Finally, he licks his lips and stands. Her head snaps around to look at him, and he revels in her surprise for a moment; it's always exhilarating to see her out of control, for he's well aware there are few people whom she trusts enough to see her that vulnerable.

When she stands, he takes her into his arms as it is the most natural thing in the world.

He loves that God has an overdeveloped sense of irony.

He kisses her cheek--just like he did during their first case together, back when he both knew it all and had no clue about the world or the woman to whom he was about to be introduced--and then walks away without a second glance, but all the time knowing he was leaving something very important behind.


	8. The Way We Fall

_A/N: You survived the crazy. Thanks so much for sticking with me through this admittedly bumpy ride. And one more big thank you to Alamo Girl for being the goddess of the red pen._

* * *

**8. The Way We Fall**

If it didn't feel like there was a ragged, gaping hole in her side, she'd be inclined to believe the past two years--specifically, her partnership with one Rick Castle--had never happened.

But she's not one for hyperbole. There was a Kate Beckett before Rick Castle, and there will be one after. In the interim, the city's summer landscape is hazy brown with memories and possibilities unrealized. She just has to make it through without going insane from second-guessing herself.

She finds her fingers itch to press speed dial one and send more often than not--she still hasn't had the heart to reprogram her phone--but something indefinable stops her. Perhaps it's the knowledge that both of them knew he should leave; that it was the right thing to do.

But as in so many lessons, what is right is not necessarily easy, and it's been a much harder transition than she'd anticipated; the life in her lie that she wanted to do this without him was starting to fade, being strangled by truths and tequila, which had been her confessor more than once lately.

She finds it ironic; he was forced on her, and here she wanted to choose him.

But she can't find the right words, wishing she had access to the thesaurus in his brain. And his behavior of late has made it difficult; in the few times that they've talked, he's been rushed and distracted. As the days bleed into weeks and she burns beneath the sun and the scorching pain of indecision, Castle hasn't initiated much contact, and the once closely woven knit of their relationship is pulling apart at the seams.

It's all the confirmation she needs, and she tries to start letting go, even as she feels pieces of herself falling unabated into endless crevices below.

So when she receives a hand-delivered courier packet and immediately recognizes the handwriting as his, she's both confused and intrigued. She rips through the adhesive on the manila envelope and pulls out a thickly bound manuscript, her heartbeat deafening her as the blood rushes to her head.

The title page confirms it's the next Nikki Heat book, which surprises her into stillness; she hadn't expected any new material from him for a long while.

_Guess he doesn't need me after all._

_Or maybe he was just overly inspired…_

The weight of both the book and the cascade of everything she'd tried to put out of her head comes rushing back like a broken dam, and she sinks onto a couch, feeling a fool for not realizing his attention was so sharply divided between two worlds.

Then again, she realizes as she eagerly flips to the next page, thankful he's not here to tease her about it, he straddled that line better than anyone she'd ever seen. Father, son, writer, friend…whatever he was to her…

It was a balancing act she never really gave him credit for; a routine that took monumental efforts of dedicated energy. She finds herself smiling, running an index finger along the binding as she swells with pride.

And then she sees it.

Two messages for her, clear as day.

She has to read them twice for the meaning to even partially sink in. A shaking hand comes to hover in front of her mouth, and she inhales a ragged breath.

Oh, how she wants to believe this.

But it doesn't change anything. She still can't guarantee his safety.

Then again, she can't guarantee much in this world. And he's not asking to be let back on cases.

He's just asking for her.

_Now or never, Katie. Time to jump. What--or _whom_--do you choose?_

As she sprints towards the door, the dedication page flutters in the downdraft of her air conditioning vent.

_For Kate--who, while I wasn't looking, became my other half--and the best part of me._

On a blue Post-It, in his handwriting, very simply is, _I miss you._

She's not sure why she knocks when she arrives outside his apartment, rather than use her key, which still rests comfortably on her key ring. Perhaps it's one last request for confirmation that _he_ can admit what _she's _been denying all along: she wants to be let in.

He answers the door after an eternal instant and looks her up and down as he leans against the jamb. His eyes are incomprehensible; a mixture of emotions swirling too quickly for her to read.

She understands, because she's got no idea what to say.

It doesn't much matter, though.

They are here together.

They are whole together.

They are electric together.

They are alive together.

They have fallen together.

The rest they'll figure out along the way. It will be messy. It will progress and regress.

It will be called life.

FIN


End file.
